Focus
by BeautifulKnight
Summary: Zack's death from Cloud's perspective. Based on the original FF7. "A warm hand is on his shoulder, and then it's gone. Cloud wants to turn to see the hand, it feels like the other one, but he can't, he never can. So his eyes stay trained on the dirt next to his cheek." Rated T for blood and disturbing themes. Both the characters and the cover of this story belong to Square Enix.


His sparse moments of awareness always start with the other one. Cloud knows that the other one has another name, spec- Z, specim- Z, s- Z, but he doesn't like that first word. The other one is a much better name for … Z. The other one smiles at Cloud a lot, and his mouth is always moving silently. The other one also frowns sometimes, but he seems more mad then sad when he does. The other one is also always moving, Cloud nearly always becomes aware staring at the ground, slung over the shoulder of the man, watching lazily as two pairs of heels vanish and return in tandem. Sometimes, they don't move. Sometimes, Cloud's cheeks are warm and wet and the other one hugs him. The other one is always warm when Cloud is cold, the other one gives Cloud food when he is hungry, and the other one always finds Cloud a soft place to sleep.

 _Always._

Safe.

Cloud likes this man, this other one, and he wishes that Z would not be so strained, that his jaw wouldn't clench as he looks into the trees, that he wouldn't look so hopeless as he stares at the fire. Cloud wants to tell the man this and so many other things.

But his jaw never listens to him.

The routine never changes, so Cloud somehow knows that this present. This is his current reality, or as close as his mind can get to it,

But his reality is fragile and confusing and Cloud always sees something not quite right. The whole world is green. The other one's face, his dark hair, the dirt ground, his boots, the fire, all green. Green and toobright. But the other one smiles, so it's not so bad. The green always reminds him of the Bad Time, which was much less pleasant. It was green and sharp and cold and achy and loud and endless and… Cloud's head always starts to hurt, he doesn't like to think about the Bad Time.

He knows there must've been _something_ Before the Bad Time. The Before wasn't green, he remembers it sometimes, it's fire and pain and sadness… but it's also something more, it is cakes and hugs and shy smiles, burgundy eyes, promises, feelings of pride and of remorse and hurting fists, but overall, happiness and completeness. Cloud vaguely wonders if this is how a person is supposed to feel, whole.

But Cloud doesn't feel whole, not anymore. He knows his mind is sideways and his limbs don't move when the other one's can. His mind is filled with questions that are never answered to which he can barely muster a thought or even acknowledge. But as always, all of the thinking starts to hurt and soon everything is gone into darkness again. And when his mind awakens, the process repeats over, and over, and _over,_ starting with the real world and the man, and ending is emptiness and frustrating questions _._

He is aware, if you can call it that, once more of hitting the ground; hard. It's never like this, the other one always puts him down carefully, leaning Cloud against something so his motionless eyes can _see._ The man has never dropped him before. And Cloud wonders, fleetingly, why he did. His cheek presses against something hard and all Cloud can think of is how cold it is. It makes him think of the Bad Time… thankfully, he can feel the ground beneath his stomach, so this can't be the Bad Time, right?

A warm hand is on his shoulder, and then it's gone. Cloud wants to turn to see the hand, it feels like the other one, but he can't, he never can. So his eyes stay trained on the dirt next to his cheek. He really hopes it was the other one, Cloud never likes the people in the white coats, especially the old man with the glasses and too-wide-smile, they hurt him…. But that was Before, so they can't put him back in the green liquid that burned… right?

 _NOISE._ Noisenoisenoisenoise. Cloud's world is suddenly loud and echoey and disjointed. Popopopop…popopop. It's unending and so **loud** and **new** and he wants to put his hands over his ears so badly. Cloud can remember noise, from Before, _Don't push it kid!,_ - _Help me if I'm in a pinch?, Your father left when you were very young…, I'm-! Happy 14th Birthday, Cloud! SOLDIER is filled with monsters,_ but his world has been silent for so long. It hurts. Cloud waits, hoping, for the first time, that his thoughts can be gone soon.

He can't tell which is worse, the deafening noise, or the sudden silence.

He hears, HEARS, a concept both terrifying and liberating to him. He could hear at first in the Bad Time. There were a lot of screams back then. Then the liquid found a way in, the green infiltrated his eyes and his throat and his ears, and he stopped hearing. It _burned._ Dark.

There are footsteps near his head, then voices.

"-been taken care of…"

"-other?"

"Leave him… -good as dead."

They come and go, weaving in and out of the silence. Low and harsh. High and cold. Then, the voices are gone.

It's not so green anymore. The dirt beneath his cheek is more brown now. The other one hasn't planted his boots next to Cloud, and pulled Cloud up next to himself and smiled at the teenager…. teenager, he's a teenager, right…? He feels… longer. Time flowed strangely in the Bad Time. It's not so green anymore, and Cloud doesn't know where the other one went. Cloud's chest is tight and his breath is short, the man will help him. He needs to find the other one. if it is less green, maybe it is like before. Maybe Cloud is like before and can go find… Z himself.

So Cloud tries. He tries to get his arms closer to himself. First, his right arm; he tries to tense his fingers and is rewarded with a bone-deep ache in his hand… but it's more than the nothingness, than the Bad Time. Cloud knows he used to move all the time, before, but he can't remember the specifics, so this is a victory. Cloud tries again; what results is a half spasm, half triumph, as he manages to move the arm closer to himself, but not in a way that at all resembles how he used to move, how _anyone_ should move, Cloud knows this. He tries the other arm, but then it is flailing and his shoulder is burning… it was always the left arm, he remembers, where the needles went in. Needles with bad things that burned even more than the liquid and _whispered_ that he doesn't want to remember. So he stops trying to move… the other one wouldn't want to see him sad.

Cloud stays there for a long time.

Little… things are hitting his back, his calves, and the back of his head, flattening his blonde, spiky hair. The somethings are tracing their way down the side of his head tickling his face, crossing the bridge of his nose. Water, he realizes. The dirt beneath him is full of it, colder, if that was possible, then before, squelchy and dark.

He's forgetting something… he always is, but this is more than the aching hole that is his mind, this is important…

Oh. He needs to find the other one… his friend? But where is he?

His fingers twitch and the pain reminds him of the white coats and the screaming and the-

No.

Cloud will not let himself drift away again. He can _move,_ he is _free,_ he needs to find the missing one before he drifts away again. His teeth clench and he pulls at his biceps, they don't like it, but they move. Cloud wrenches his arms next to his body, splaying his hands below his chin. He rests for a moment, as the bone deep ache in his joints grows and his head begins to ache again. In his green-tinged, warped vision, he sees his arms, his hands.

There are crevasses and dips in his skin where he knows there shouldn't be. His skin clings close to his skeleton, jutting out only where his tendons and bones do. He wants to throw up. That's not how a normal person looks. Cloud always thought Z looked thin and tired, now he understands why Z looks sad sometimes too when he looks at him. It's so wrong and weird and his hands are too big and pale and skeletal…

Not for the first time, he wonders how long ago Before was.

The other one, Z, comes first, Cloud reminds himself sternly, disgusted by how easily his thoughts wander. He tries to lift his head and gasps. it feels like all of the strength he has had for the past few… moments, is gone. Gravity weighs down on his head and thin shoulders, begging him to fall onto the ground once again. But he grits his teeth, and cries out, and strains… and for the first time in nearly five years, Cloud Strife lifts his head on his own.

He squints at the scene before him, brain unsure of how to process it. There are many people lying on the ground around him. There is a lot of red. It flows in rivers around the them, they wear helmets that look familiar, but Cloud's mind is too exhausted to find a connection. Only one man, about ten feet away, near the edge of a cliff, lacks a helmet. And he is the only one that matters.

It's the other one.

Why is Z just lying there? Can't he see that Cloud is up and looking for him? This is hardly the time to take a nap. Naps… his friend likes naps, Cloud remembers. Naps and flowers and Midgar.

Focus.

Cloud's limbs are weak and floppy and frail and toolong but he manages a painful army crawl. He slogs through the increasingly wet mud. Occasionally he looses focus, brought on by sensations and thoughts. The cold rain on his back reminds him of a conversation with the other one, when Cloud was talking and they both were laughing and little cold, white somethings were floating past the tip of his nose… did he know the man Before? No, don't drift away just yet. Cloud shakes his head, grunts and keeps moving. The black of his clothes looks like the childhood promise; it had a navy sky and bright stars and he'd told her… what? Cloud grits his teeth.

He struggles, fading in and out of the past, of Before, and of the Bad Time, and he doesn't stop until he is nearly on top of Z. Cloud blinks slowly, retreating onto his haunches at the other one's side. The man doesn't look quite right, he still has his black hair, but he won't open his blue-green eyes for Cloud, and Cloud has never seen him with so much red on his face. It flows jaggedly, dark near his dark _dark_ hair and lighter by his nose. As for the other's body… dark clothing and boots, but Cloud doesn't remember the man having so many holes in him, and _more_ red flows.

Flowing, shifting, red. It reminds Cloud of that time from Before, when everything was red. The red was the same back then, flowing, shifting, _changing, glowing._ Fire. The blonde's eyes lose focus, glazing over as he nearly goes into the dark again.

Then they drift over the sword.

His eyes widen. It is a massive broadsword, almost like a giant kitchen knife, nearly six feet long with a silver-studded cross-guard and a leather grip. Cloud knows this sword, he's seen it on the other one's back _Before_.

Before.

He remembers now, what has been missing, what the Before was. Before, he was a small child who lived in a small village. Nibleheim, that was its name. The girl with the burgundy eyes… she lived next-door. He never knew his father but his mother was always wonderful and caring despite this. The other kids in the village, they didn't like him. He'd always wondered why… maybe because he was so quiet. The girl next-door, her name was Tifa… that's right, Tifa. He'd liked her, a lot. She'd been distant though, was it because she fell…? Falling, they both were falling along with tumbling rocks… was that his fault? Cloud gets the sense that it was. When he was older, he punched the other kids and they'd yelled at him, but he'd never cared. Then he heard tales of heroes, of Shin-Ra SOLDIERS, of Sephi- his brain hurts, he'd seen their prowess, their ability and knew it was the only way for him to be strong enough to protect…. It was dark then, and her burgundy eyes reflected the stars as she asked him to promise her, so he did.

He left Nibleheim to join SOLDIER at age 15.

The rest was a blur, he feels as though he must've returned to Nibleheim at some point, because he doesn't remember it with childhood sweetness, he remembers it with pain and remorse and rage and red and fire.

Red. The napping other one next to him was there too. He'd offered the blonde words of advice, sounds of laughter, and an enduring smile. He'd also hefted his mighty weapon, this sword, against the silver-haired bad. He'd strode from a room, silhouetted by bright lights, weapon firmly on his back. He'd spun the broadsword in his hands and placed it on his back as though it weighed nothing. He'd proudly pronounced his rank, SOLDIER, First Class.

Cloud **did** know him in the before, he'd been his friend, but he had also been the one Cloud looked up to most. He had been a hero.

It is raining harder now, and the green is lighter, but still there. The hero has a name.

"Z-Zach?" His voice is a whisper, hoarse, and he knows there's no way he can wake his friend up by using it. He could before, but he ignores that thought. He slowly settles his hand on Zack's shoulder, arm still twitching from disuse, Zack is as cold as the mud, he was never this cold before. Cloud manages a sort-of shake, but in Cloud's weakened state, Zack is barely jostled.

His eyes stay closed.

Next he tries poking his arm. Nothing. Cloud feels his own lip trembling. Why? He has no reason to be sad, Zack is just sleeping because he is tired, but he doesn't have to be anymore because Cloud can move again, he won't have to drag Cloud around anymore, doesn't Zack want to see that?

Now Zack doesn't have to be so unhappy, they can talk and laugh like they did before!

Cloud presses his lips together, mustering all of the strength he can and slaps Zack's cheek. It seems cruel to an outsider, but Cloud is growing desperate, and he's not sure why just yet.

Zack's head lolls to the side slightly from the force of the slap, but he doesn't react.

Cloud's cheeks are warm and wet. Why won't Zack wake up?

 _And suddenly he's in a familiar room with cobblestone floors. His mother's back is to him, she is bringing a fresh loaf of bread out of the oven. She sets it on the counter, removing the yellow oven mitts and clapping her hands together. She turns to him with a warm smile._

 _"_ _How was tag, Cloud?"_

 _He opens his mouth, but no words come out. She must see the tears on his round cheeks because she bends down, and wraps her arms around him in a tight embrace._

 _"_ _Honey, what's wrong?"_

 _He stutters, but manages to get the words out this time, "R-Rolf doesn't m-move anymore, Johnny says that he's r-returned to the life… river."_

 _Mrs. Strife's eyes widen in shock, "Who's Rolf, Honey?"_

 _"_ _A c-caterpillar I found to-to-today."_

 _She closes her eyes briefly, thankful that no one in the village has passed. But Cloud has never experienced death before, how do you explain it to a three-year-old?_

 _"_ _I take it that you're not playing tag anymore?"_

 _"_ _N-no! Johnny's dad took Rolf a-away!"_

 _She picks him up, sitting him in one of the chairs at the dinner table, his head just barely reaches above the surface thanks to his spiky hair. She turns the chair to face her, then sits down as well._

 _"_ _It sounds like Rolf returned to the lifestream, Cloud."_

 _He sighs, tears no longer freely flowing, "But what does that_ ** _mean_** _?"_

 _"_ _It's complicated… It happens to everything, you see, we are all… ourselves. Our spirit is what makes us talk, laugh, smile, think, and move. And when you return to the lifestream, that part of you leaves, I guess. Your body is still here, but_ ** _you,_** _your spirit is no longer here. It has returned to the earth. You see, our planet depends on the lifestream, it's like an energy source, constantly ebbing and flowing as new people come into the world and others return to it. Basically, the lifestream is us, and we are the lifestream, we start from it, and one day, we return to it. It is true that Rolf is no longer with us, but his spirit has returned to the lifestream and will be born again, so you don't have to be sad."_

 _His eyes are wide, "Do you understand?"_

 _He nods, and she hugs him once more. He took it well, once he understood, which is wise for someone so young. Sometimes death is hard to accept, even if no one is ever gone, not really._

Then everything connects. The holes and the red and the noise. It all connects and Zack's peaceful face doesn't match the blood still slowly trickling out of the corner of his mouth. Or the bullet holes. Cloud's hands are slack as he kneels at Zack's side, the tears are getting worse. His chest swells with emotion. Cloud doesn't want Zack to be gone. He doesn't want his hero to leave him alone, his head is still so empty of things that should be there and Zack was the only one who could fill it again. He doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't wanttobealone. _Hedoesn'twanttobealone._

But does he have the right to say that?

Cloud doesn't know how long Zack's been carrying him… but that doesn't matter. Cloud has done nothing for Zack, he hadn't moved or spoken until now, until it doesn't matter. Cloud has burdened Zack for too long. Months? Years? He hasn't done a damn thing except dangle over Zack's shoulder or watch his hero's mouth move, saying stories and ideas that Cloud could never hear. Would never hear. No, Zack was the hero. Cloud is a burden.

It's too much, it's all too much. His chest is choking him, only made worse by Zack's peaceful face. Cloud doesn't deserve to be near that face. After all, didn't he just get Zack killed!? It all hurts, but he deserves it, it all hurts, but he can't be near Zack. Cloud scrambles desperately backwards on his hands. Something sharp slices his palm and he falls. The cold mud grabs him, rising up next to his cheeks.

Cloud _screams_.

 _screams._

 _screams…_

For a while, it's dark. Then flashes of awareness.

A sword, lying next to a dead man.

He thinks he should know the man, but he knows he doesn't.

Why is he crying?

He cradles the sword to his chest, like a child holding a stuffed animal.

He stands up, unsure.

Why is this sword so important?

If he really concentrates, he can see it on the back of a dark haired someone.

But concentrating hurts.

It'd be so much easier to…

His arms ache.

Everything….

A hero wields this sword, shifting it to and from his back with ease.

It hurts to see the hero with dark hair.

It would be so much easier if Cloud was the hero.

In fact, isn't Cloud the hero?

Yes.

He achieved his dream.

He became a hero.

He is a hero.

He is the hero.

His feet drag through mud, his arms drag the sword with him.

He steps over bodies.

He steps onto dirt.

 _"_ _Sorry…. Need to get back to Midgar."_

Midgar, he needs to get to Midgar.

 _"_ _Mercenaries Cloud, that's what you- are gonna be."_

 **Figured i'd post this on here, I'm thinking of doing a re-write, please let me know if that would interest you :P**


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